Cover Up

The roller is wet with 'Morning Fog,'

a gray that’s supposed to hide the past.

But the paint won't bite the drywall,

it slides right off the plaster cast.

I run my knuckles down the grain

and feel the spackle, dry and thick.

It’s chalky grit and hidden pain,

a clumsy patch that didn't stick.

The dust stays on my skin like salt,

a ghost of where the wood gave way.

It wasn't my hand or my fault,

but I’m the one who pays today.